Hoare and the matter of treason cbh-3 Read online

  "It was a great compliment, sir, and a deserved one, that Sir George found the time to leave his post and travel here for today's ceremony." It was the Reverend Arthur Gladden's voice at Hoare's elbow. Somehow, Hoare observed, it had already acquired a clerical cadence, even so soon after its owner's admission to holy orders.

  "We can thank Lord Nelson for it, Gladden," Hoare whispered. "Since Trafalgar, the Royal Navy no longer need send to sea any bottom that can swim."

  "A sad, sad loss, nonetheless," Mr. Gladden remarked.

  "Indeed." While respecting the late Lord Nelson's blazing courage, which he personally deemed all but suicidal, and respecting above all the hero's ability to weld the disparate captains under his command into that famous band of brothers, Hoare could not bring himself to feel the same about either his strategic genius or his personal morals.

  "Well, we must be off," Gladden said. "Come, Anne! We have a long journey ahead of us, and two services for me to prepare, together with my sermon. This Christmastide-my first as a priest of God, of course-has left me sadly behind in my duties, I fear.

  "By the bye, Hoare," he added, "I had thought to weave into my Sunday's homily that 'happy outcome of all our afflictions,' which is epitomized by the union which I have just been privileged to sanctify. Come, Anne!"

  Hoare paid Gladden little attention, for he was thinking about the remark he had overheard Miss Austen make. She might be sardonic, but she was perceptive. He must learn to mind his dourness. As for the lady's acidulations, she appeared to save them up until the right occasion arose to use them. Perhaps she, too, kept a commonplace book, just like the one he kept in one corner of his mind, in which he preserved his own infrequent wit and wisdom. These irreverent phrases might come in handy one day, or be passed on to an admiring younger generation.

  At least, he thought, she must eventually resign herself to seeing her old friend married to this man whom she apparently deemed so unsuitable a match. He knew her to be a highly intelligent woman, yet her attempts to put a spoke in Hoare's wheel had been feeble from the first, perhaps even half-hearted. He wondered what had moved her to make them to begin with.

  Gladden's little sister had already parted from her lieutenant, and was awaiting her brother in the stern sheets of one of the pair-oared wherries that were hanging about Royal Duke to take off her guests. She turned to wave a kerchief sadly at Mr. Clay. The little lieutenant stood now, as Hoare had, hat in hand, until he saw his special guest safe ashore. Then he stood aside for his commander to leave the ship. The bride's people loaded the couple's portmanteaux into Hoare's gig, while she thanked the weary instrumentalists. As she did so, Hoare took Mr. Clay aside.

  "I'll be back aboard in the morning," he whispered. "While I'm away, you must prepare her for sea. We must be in Portsmouth on Wednesday, before four bells of the morning watch."

  That order given, he handed his bride into the gig and followed her out of his command.

  They would spend their wedding night in the house that Dr. Simon Graves had left to his wife, and in the bed she had shared with her late husband. The next day they would part company, since Hoare must obey his summons to Portsmouth. Sir George Hardcastle, who was known to be a hard and a merciless man, tolerated tardiness not at all. Hoare did not look forward to breaking the news to his bride that they must part so soon. They had known it must happen sooner rather than later, but-their first wedded morning? That was too much of enough.

  "And how do you do this morning, my love?" Hoare looked down at his bride's figure beside him, her black hair spread across the pillow. Sleepily, she looked back at him.

  "To tell you the truth, Bartholomew, I'm sore," she said. "Sore down there, and somewhat surprised at the entire proceedings. The practice is much more intriguing than the theory, I find. Thank you, my dear. You are a most understanding man, I think." She drew his head down to hers, nibbled his ear, and kissed him deeply.

  As Hoare had expected, Eleanor had been a virgin. Her late husband had been paralyzed below the waist when they had married, so their union had never been physically consummated. Her imagination cannot have lain idle, however, and her new experience of the night before had apparently only aroused her enthusiasm. Hoare found its intensity startling, and arousing in its turn. The beneficent cycle took its natural course.

  Downstairs in the sunny parlor, the maid Agnes and the manservant Tom served the Hoares a late breakfast with their tea- kedgeree, kippers, kidneys, and toast. The child Jenny had taken a bowl of porridge in the kitchen earlier, but now sat demurely between bride and groom, handling her tableware with extreme care and absorbing food in silence and enormous quantities. Under the care of her late father, the child had been under nourished, so she had much catching up to do. She was doing her best.

  Neither servant even attempted to suppress a knowing expression, and there were audible giggles in the direction of the kitchen when Eleanor Hoare, folding her napkin and slipping it into its ring, moved to her tuffet and sat down in a somewhat gingerly manner, gathering her skirts about her.

  "My, how happy I shall be when my mourning can come to a close," she said. "Mourning is most unbecoming to a person of my coloring, or lack of it."

  She did not wait for Hoare to whisper his denial, but continued, "I think you are procrastinating, Bartholomew. When you were seeing him over the side yesterday, Sir George talked with you longer than mere convention would require." The sparkle in her eyes belied the severity of her tone.

  "Well?"

  When not preoccupied with other matters during the night, Hoare had puzzled over how to break to his bride the news that, instead of their making their wedding trip to Great Dunmow in Essex, where she planned to introduce her new husband to her people, he must leave her here like every sailor's wife. He had best be forthright, he decided at last; this woman did not take well to being cozened.

  "I must leave you this morning, my dear," he said, "and return in Royal Duke to Portsmouth. From there, I must leave her to ground upon her own beef bones… and grind up secrets for the Admiralty's bread, while I go on to London and report to their Lordships."

  "Oh," she said. "Ohhh!" echoed Jenny.

  "Are we to we accompany you?" Eleanor asked, preparing to rise. Hoare shook his head.

  "That is not possible, I fear," he said. "As you know, Sir George frowns heavily upon captains who keep their wives aboard. And not only must I travel fast; I cannot say how long I shall be required to dangle about in London…

  "No, I think you have two possible courses of action. The first is to remain here in comfort, safe and sound, until I can rejoin you. The second is to proceed to Portsmouth by land, hire suitable lodgings for us all, and settle down there or in the surrounding countryside, to await me."

  "There is a third possibility," Eleanor said. "We could descend upon Father and my brothers in Great Dunmow, and await you there. After all, Great Dunmow is far closer to London than we would be down here on the coast. And after all, they will already be expecting us. For poor papa, the arrival of one less guest would only be a relief; I can hardly say the same of the family's most likely reaction to the news that our stay will be indefinite."

  "And me?" Jenny's voice was plaintive.

  "You come with us, of course," Eleanor said firmly. "You are one of us, my dear, you must remember."

  "With Order?"

  Order was Jenny's cat, out of Chaos, by Jove. Or Jenny was Order's girl. It made no difference, Hoare thought; the two were inseparable.

  "And Order, and his parents Chaos and Jove," he whispered reassuringly. "His parents, and his sisters and his cousins and his aunts as well. The entire family of fortunate felines… In command of that crew, you will have enough on your hands, I give you my word."

  After Hoare had assembled his personal kit, the little family walked down to the dock through a light November mist. Here, with a wave of his hat, Hoare signaled Royal Duke to send his gig. As they stood awaiting its approach, a man behind him cleared his throat
. Startled, Hoare spun around, to find himself facing the squat batrachian figure of Martin Frobisher, with his slabsided sister on his arm. The last time Hoare had seen either of them, they had been participating in the grotesque tragicomedy at the Nine Stones Circle. The lady had been bare naked above the waist that night; she had not displayed well.

  Martin Frobisher's form was made all the more froggish in appearance by his choice of a surtout. Well cut, it was a deep, warm green in color. He bore his fashionable top hat in hand.

  "Go and greet the bride, Lydia," he said. "I have something to tell Captain Hoare in private." Dutiful, the sister obeyed.

  "May I wish you happy, sir?" he now asked.

  Ever since their first encounter, up the esplanade at the Town Club, Hoare and Sir Thomas Frobisher, this young man's father, had held each other in deep mutual disesteem. Hoare knew that Sir Thomas thought him an arrogant, taciturn coxcomb who made a habit of showing contempt for his betters and who had interfered not once, but twice, with his plans for a second, profitable marriage. He had done so first with the sturdy woman now on Hoare's arm, and, almost simultaneously, with little Miss Anne Gladden. On his own part, Hoare's contempt for the knight-baronet was quite real, and carried with it-Hoare must admit to himself-more than a touch of fear. For Sir Thomas combined a singular degree of authority in much of Dorset with the assurance, self-generated and self-perpetuating, that he, and not its present Hanoverian incumbent, was the rightful occupant of England's throne. For centuries, all the male Frobishers had resembled frogs. Like Sir Thomas's daughter, the Frobisher females were slab-sided, lacked all sheer, and had pronounced humped backs.

  Martin Frobisher had inherited his father's appearance but not his quirky mind. In fact, in the course of their brief acquaintance, Hoare had found him quite likeable. He lacked Sir Thomas's overweening pride, for one thing. For another, he seemed possessed of a degree of self-deprecating humor. He was not above acknowledging himself a coward.

  Now, however, Mr. Martin Frobisher's mien was grave.

  "I beg a word with you, sir," he said with a gesture inviting him to step aside. Puzzled, Hoare obliged.

  "I know, of course, Captain Hoare, that you and my father are not the best of friends." His voice was embarrassed. As well it should be, Hoare thought.

  "No, don't deny it, sir," the young man continued, looking up into Hoare's faded gray eyes with his own yellowish ones. "You know it as well as I. But, to be frank, I do not share his feelings on the matter. Indeed, I wish you well.

  "For that reason, as well as with an eye to my family's honor, I feel obliged to warn you that my father entertains plans to do you harm."

  "Oh?" Hoare responded, with a lifted brow.

  "I do not know how, or where, but from words I happened to overhear, his intention is real. And, as you may have discovered, once my father gets an opinion, he keeps it, nourishes it, encourages it to grow. There are those who call him mad; indeed, I fear that in some respects and on some subjects, they may be right. All I can do now, sir, as his son, is give you this warning. And hope you will walk warily. Will you take my hand?"

  Mr. Frobisher looked up at Hoare with eyes that were appealing as well as goggling.

  "Of course, sir," Hoare said, and shook the offered hand. Behind him, his coxswain called, "Oars!" and the gig grated lightly on the hard.

  "Fare you well, Captain," Frobisher said, and walked off on his bandy legs so that Hoare could make his own good-byes in privacy. Once in the gig, Hoare turned to wave to his wife and his fosterling, then turned, wondering, to face the brig he commanded.

  Chapter II

  A gray, unremarkable figure, the visitor dominated his host's closet.

  "You have assured me, sir," he said, "that this conversation cannot be overheard. Nonetheless, how am I to be certain that behind one of these linen-fold panels a secret stenographer does not lurk? Even the walls have ears."

  "You insult my hospitality, sir, and my integrity!"

  "Bombast, sir, bombast and fustian. Have done, pray. We are practical men, you and I, and must not permit false pride to stand between us and our objective.

  "In the window seat, here, I think," the guest continued. Come, sir, join me. A pleasant view, indeed, of your garden-and of your daughter. It must be more pleasant still in the spring."

  "I'll thank you to leave my daughter out of the discussion. She has nothing to do with this matter."

  "Agreed. Now, as to the king-he is mad, as we all know, and that presents special problems of a tactical nature."

  "First, the portrait, Mr…"

  The visitor raised his hand in warning. "Ah-ah-ah, sir. No names at all, if you please, not even here. I have gone so far as to assent to your whim with respect to the portrait, as long as it is kept most closely indeed-but names? Not yet, not until our plans bear fruit.

  "We have the names we use among ourselves, you know, and I must insist we employ them, and them only…"

  "Call me Ahab, then." The host's voice was surly. He was not pleased, it seemed, at taking correction-and in his own house, at that.

  "And, as you will remember, I am Saul. Now, as I was saying, about the king…"

  "This brings me to my reason for requiring your presence here so soon after the recent happy occasion at which you were a principal character and I a mere hanger-on."

  The speaker was Admiral Sir George Hardcastle. Without the least ceremony, the instant Royal Duke had touched at Portsmouth's Camber dock, Hoare had left Mr. Clay in temporary command so he could to make all speed to Admiralty House. His timely arrival had been celebrated by the ringing of eight bells on the old Spanish trophy in the building's front hall.

  "Now," the admiral continued, "do you recall my speaking of Admiral Sir Hugh Abercrombie, KJB?"

  "Of course, sir," Hoare said, thinking as he spoke that the implied question was absurd. Any officer who did not know his true master would be a zany.

  "You will also recall, I trust," the admiral went on, "that you, and that brisk little floating counting-house you command, take orders from me only at Admiral Abercrombie's pleasure. He is your commander, and not I.

  "Until now, you have been known to Sir Hugh only by reputation and not in person. Sir Hugh now wishes to further his knowledge of you. He requires you to present yourself to him, at the Admiralty, forthwith. Hammersmith here…"

  The admiral looked to one side where his new flag lieutenant sat, looking eager. Delancey, his predecessor, had been shifted into command of the brig Niobe, 18, some weeks ago. After an interesting brush with the virgin Royal Duke, he had taken Niobe to the waters off Cadiz to watch over the remains of the combined Franco-Spanish fleet.

  "… has prepared vouchers for suitable lodgings at the Golden Cross Inn near Whitehall. Thank you, Hammersmith, you may go."

  Admiral Hardcastle looked away. Hoare could have sworn that he was embarrassed.

  Even after his flag lieutenant had closed the door behind him-and stooped to put his ear to the keyhole, if Hoare knew his flag lieutenants-Sir George paused as if he expected Hoare to comment. Hoare had never heard of the Golden Cross Inn, so he could say nothing to the point. More important, he wondered at the implied order to leave his ship. What could have prompted it? Here, too, he would have nothing to say, but must sit and await enlightenment in Sir George's own good time.

  The admiral did not keep his subordinate wondering for long.

  "Sir Hugh informs me that he is most alarmed," he said, "by the disappearance, without trace, of certain documents dealing with affairs in the Baltic, with which his office has been entrusted by the Foreign Office. Unfortunately-and this must go no further than our four ears-they involve more than purely naval matters. If they were to fall into Boney's hands, he could, I am told, use them to our disadvantage in the Baltic states, including Russia. The Foreign Office would view their loss with extreme concern; news of their loss would certainly produce a storm in the Cabinet. As far as the Admiralty is concerned, trouble with St. Pet
ersburg could deny the navy the pine boles we need so desperately for masting. At worst, we might find ourselves stretched to confront a new enemy in strange, cold, and distant waters.

  "I have no notion of these documents' content, nor do I wish to have one. I have more than enough of that sort of burgoo on my plate now. The upshot, Hoare, is that Sir Hugh is eager for you to investigate the matter, and get the damned things back without anyone knowing they ever went adrift in the first place."

  This would be another Herculean task, Hoare thought. He would find himself in "strange, cold, and distant waters," indeed, with no charts. There was no point in voicing his concern, however: duty was duty.

  "The Admiralty," Sir George went on, "inquires why you have not yet reported to Admiral Sir Hugh Abercrombie in Whitehall for instruction, as ordered in their signal of such-and-such date.

  "Now, my office has no record of having received such a signal. Somewhere between Sir Hugh's hand and mine, it went adrift. I have so informed Sir Hugh in words that absolve you, at least of any blame in the matter. You can hardly, after all, be justly charged with lacking diligence in executing an order which you never received. Besides, in all fairness, I can hardly extinguish so soon the promising career you have so recently rekindled.

  "By the by, sir, you will note that in relieving you of blame for the mishap, that blame will necessarily be placed somewhere else. Since one can hardly expect that Whitehall will shoulder it, it will almost certainly arrive on this desk to squeak and gibber at me like Mr. Shakespeare's sheeted dead."